by Lyla Payne
“They must not have found anything.”
“I guess not, though Orrie McElroy wasn’t so sure.”
“Orrie McElroy?” Amelia repeats, staring at me over the rim of her wine glass with wide green eyes. On the baby monitor, Jack shifts in his sleep and lets out a little bleat.
We both freeze, staring at the tiny glowing screen, until he goes back to sleep.
“Yeah, the reporter. That’s his name,” I answer her once we can both breathe easy again.
“What kind of name is that?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t think to ask.” I shake my head, wondering how our brains can work so similarly most of the time and then hers can just jump the shark without warning. It keeps things interesting, though. “I did think to ask about the Officer Raynard he mentioned in his article, though.”
“And?” she asks, her eyes sparkling with interest.
“Related to Clete, but he didn’t say how.”
“Wait, wait, hold the phone. Clete has a relation who is a cop?” Her eyebrows go up, then up again when I nod. “Well, that explains a few things.”
“Such as?” I dig in my bag from work and come up with a water bottle. It’s not alcohol, but it does taste good.
“Well, his issue with authority, for one. For another, it could be the reason he’s got such a need to control the local police force. First he wanted Will in his pocket, and now he’s pissed because Travis won’t play ball.”
“I mean, he needs to control the police force so he can get away with his illegal activities. I’m not sure that has anything to do with this Folly Beach cop.”
“Maybe not, but think about it. He’d be better off bribing the county or state officials than Heron Creek’s officers. Why is it so important to him?”
I’d never given that much thought before, but now that this little tidbit has surfaced, Clete’s need to feel in control of the cops does kind of make sense.
“Who’s to say he doesn’t have a hand in those bigger offices, too? I bet he has his guys in all of them.” I bite my bottom lip, trying to follow a trail of smoke in my mind. It’s something to do with Clete, but I can’t quite catch it.
“Maybe.”
“He also said that Darla and Leo were on thin ground before Harlan died. That she didn’t want Harlan to quit his job to start the business with Leo.”
“I wonder why.”
“Who knows? Stability is a big thing, and striking out as an older guy was probably stressful. I don’t know. You wouldn’t think she would let it tear her family apart, though.”
Amelia is quiet for a moment, staring at the monitor and biting her lip. “I don’t know, Grace. Right now, I can’t imagine one single thing keeping me from being that little boy’s biggest fan. But an unexpected death, when you’re in love the way Darla and Harlan were…I think we don’t know what it might have done to her.
“Maybe.” It’s close to what Orrie said, too, but I just don’t know. I can’t imagine Harlan would have been okay with his wife and son at odds over their venture.
“Maybe nothing. You know I’m right.” Amelia finishes her wine and looks longingly toward the kitchen.
“Do you want another glass? I can get up.”
“No, I shouldn’t. I’m a lightweight these days. Besides, I think Brick might stop by a little later.”
“A little later?” I check my phone. “It’s almost eight.”
She shrugs. “He had a late meeting.”
I pause, still not wanting to disrupt our flow but knowing now is the time to ask. “Did you talk to him already?”
Her cheeks flush slightly. “No. I’m going to do it when he gets here. I didn’t think a phone conversation was appropriate, and I worried he might make up an excuse to avoid me if he thought I was going to ambush him.”
“Good call.” I do get up then, the smell of homemade cookies luring me into the kitchen. On the way there, the back door catches my eye, and I spend a good thirty seconds staring at it as if it’s going to start spitting little red rocks at me on its own.
Garnets, if Travis is right.
Another thing Amelia and I need to discuss, but the soft knock on the front door tells me I’ve run out of time for talking tonight. I decide to help out my cousin by peeking at Jack, thereby heading off any potential crying.
The road to hell might be paved with good intentions, and apparently so is the road to eavesdropping on my cousin and her boyfriend. Because after I check on Jack and slip into pajamas, I find my butt planted on the third stair down, ear trained toward the living room.
It’s the best spot for “accidentally” overhearing, a fact both my cousin and I decided after years of testing how best to stay involved in whatever the adults did after sending us up to bed.
With silent darkness behind me, it’s almost as good as being down in the living room.
I feel a slight twinge of guilt. But every busybody in town will tell you that being nosy is the best way to find stuff out.
“I’m glad you came over, even if you’re tired,” Amelia says. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”
The pause is so awkward I can feel it without seeing either of them. Silently, I will Brick Drayton to be the man we all believe he’s becoming and not the one he was for the past however many years.
“If this is about dinner the other night, I can explain.”
“Wait. It is about dinner the other night, but not in the way that you think.” Her voice is strong and sure, flavored strongly with compassion.
Love and pride mingle in my chest, flowing through my veins.
“Okay…”
“I wasn’t a good friend to you the other night, and I’m sorry. When you ordered us a bottle of wine, I wasn’t thinking about how hard you’ve worked to stay sober. I was thinking that I didn’t want to ruin our date, I guess, or that it was okay to let you make decisions for your own life without me sticking my nose in your business, which just isn’t fair.” She pauses, but Brick doesn’t interrupt.
All of a sudden, I love him again, too.
“It scared me. I don’t…I’ve worked hard, too, to not be the woman who married Jake. Who stayed married to him. And to think that she’s still in here—hiding and waiting to cover my mouth with her trembling hands, well…it freaked me out.”
“Amy, my social drinking is not your failure.”
“I’m not saying it is, Brick. I’m saying I understand that it’s hard. That we slip up. That even if we’ve come so far from the place and the person we used to be that we think they’re gone forever, they’re not.” She pauses again, but not for as long. “I’m saying that you and I are in this together, so I’m telling you that you can’t have a drink, not one. And you’re telling me, in your own way, that I need to speak up even if it would be easier not to.”
“Thank you.” His voice is coarse and rough, as if maybe he’s trying to hold back tears. “I’m sorry. I talked to my sponsor and I know I need to be more regular about meetings. I thought I could have just a glass of wine here and there for work, so it wouldn’t look strange, but…”
He trails off and I don’t know what’s happening anymore without being able to see. The moment feels as if it has turned more private, and definitely not appropriate for a cousin’s ears, so I get up and head to my room.
Instead of going over what Orrie McElroy told me earlier or what I’m going to say to Trent Boone when I finally see him—I need to text Knox to set something up for my day off, but have been putting it off for reasons unknown (or unconfronted)—I drift off smiling.
Because as hard as things have been in my own personal life lately, Amelia’s seems to be going in the right, if winding, direction. And dammit, no one deserves a little happiness more than she does. Not even me.
I’m not quite sure how I end up half-drunk on Knox’s ship on my day off, but it’s hard to regret it.
Okay, I kind of know how it happened.
He told me that he expected Trent to be arou
nd today since he’s been turning down charters right and left and his mom is watching his boy for the week. I told Amelia not to expect me, climbed in my good-as-new car (thanks, Glory Jean), and headed for Seabrook.
That was eight hours ago, and we haven’t seen hide nor hair of Trent Boone. We have seen half a bottle of whiskey and pretty much an entire frozen pizza, however, and for some reason now it’s super duper hot on his boat at the end of January.
“So wait, wait. You smell the ghosts? And you feel what they’re feeling?” He stares at me, waiting for a response.
At least, I assume he’s wanting a response other than butterflies and dry mouth. I manage a nod.
“What does that make you?”
“What do you mean, what does that make me?” The question would normally raise my hackles, but instead I’m holding back laughter. It’s the way he’s asked it, combined with the childlike expression of consternation.
And possibly the alcohol.
“I mean I’m just not familiar with the jargon. Like, are you a medium, or a sensitive, or…I don’t know…an empath?”
I peer at him, genuinely confused. “Have you been doing research, or are you just one of those reality television junkies?”
“Um, no to the latter.” He moves his arm in a sweeping motion across the small space. “Do you even see a television in here?”
“No.”
I sense he won’t be forthcoming with an answer to my first guess. There’s something sweet about the image of him Googling weird shit about people who claim to talk to dead people in an attempt to understand me better. It also kind of contradicts his devil-may-care approach to our flirtation.
“I wasn’t Googling you or anything creepy,” he informs me, giving me a side-eye that says he worries he’s being judged. “I was just curious about the whole…thing.”
“Well, join the club. And to answer your question, I’m not sure what I am, or if there’s a word for it. I have this…I guess friend named Daria who makes her living as a medium of some kind, and she’s never said.”
“I’m not surprised. It’s awfully hard to put any kind of label on a woman like you, Graciela Harper,” Knox murmurs.
For some reason, I can’t take my eyes off his lips as he says my name. They’re full and dark pink, and the way they move over the letters sends a shiver of desire down my spine. Nothing more than that—not the curiosity and fear and…something more that accompanied my lunge for Leo a few weeks ago.
This is just pure, unadulterated lust.
Impossibly, the boat gets hotter. Knox’s lips turn up into a lazy smile as we inch closer together, and suddenly we’re near enough to touch even though I didn’t mean to move. My heart thuds in my chest. Part of my brain is yelling at me to back up, to put some space between us and ask myself the hard questions about why this feels so good and whether I should be suspicious of how something so simple has essentially fallen into my lap.
In a manner of speaking.
The other part is telling me to stop thinking, for the love of god, and kiss the stupidly hot fisherman in front of me.
The second one is about to win out when the sound of footsteps on the deck above our heads stops both of us mid-lean.
“Knox? I got your note…” The voice belongs to Trent Boone, and his footfalls come closer until they’re descending the steps leading down into Knox’s living quarters.
Knox and I scoot apart with some reluctance as Trent hits the bottom stair and trails off as he takes in the scene. The open bottle of booze, the single slice of remaining pizza. The two of us, probably not hiding very well what was about to happen before he busted up the party.
“Uh, okay. Sorry?”
He looks confused. It’s hard to blame him.
Knox jumps up and offers him a drink, and while the two of them shoot the shit about Trent’s day on the water, I take a moment to study him. Beyond confused, the guy looks wrung out. His jet-black Boone locks are in desperate need of both a cut and a wash. They hang in his blue eyes, which are rimmed with red and smudged with the dark purple signs of not enough sleep.
It doesn’t take long for him to make his way over to the table and fall silent, waiting for me to explain myself, apparently. I wasn’t listening to the conversation up until now, but I gather that Knox has shared the story we’d agreed upon: that he left the note because I want to speak with Trent.
Which is true. I’m not sure why I feel so nervous about bringing up his father’s ghost. Possibly because, now that I know some of the details, I’m aware of how painful it’s going to be to talk about it. Or maybe because it feels like I’m going behind Leo’s back once again. The nagging feeling that he’s the one I should be talking to about all of this won’t go away.
In fact, it keeps getting stronger.
Nothing to be done about it now. Besides, Trent is the one who has been seeing Harlan’s ghost, not Leo. That makes him the perfect person to talk to about it, no matter how uncomfortable it makes me.
I have to believe that if Leo saw his dead father he would come to me. Then again, he probably assumes that I would come to him, and I haven’t.
I force a smile. Do my best to shake off my thoughts about the other Boone boy and focus on the one standing in front of me.
“I wanted to talk to you about your dad,” I say, because there’s no reason to beat around the bush. Most of life’s hard conversations, like Band-Aids, are best approached in a rush so that the shock comes all at once.
“My dad?” Trent’s tone is suspicious. So is the glance he casts toward Knox.
The man I almost kissed a few moments ago is suddenly very busy collecting empty glasses and setting them in the sink.
“I saw his ghost at my house the other night, then again at the library. I wanted to talk to you because there’s usually something the ghosts want or need from me in order to be at rest or…” I trail off, because what do I know, really, about where they go when they leave me? They could be at peace. I like to think they are, but none of them have ever said a word about why they need me to finish something for them.
Feeling awkward, I finish up with “So, I’d like to help him, if I can.”
He stares at me for a good twenty seconds.
Okay, fine, it’s probably only a couple, but it feels way longer. Knox finishes puttering around the kitchen and joins us at the table. There’s some relief in having backup, but some discomfort in talking about such a personal experience in front of a guy I’m starting to entertain certain ideas about.
“You saw my dad’s ghost,” Trent repeats, slower this time. “And you’re here talking to me instead of Leo why?”
Based on the renewed suspicion in the glance he casts toward his friend, he’s not asking to be nosy or because he expects some kind of story. He suspects Knox has told me about him seeing Harlan’s ghost, and he seems pretty peeved about the prospect.
Which is true, but I’ve got my current situation in Heron Creek to use as a convenient excuse. At least the falling-out with Leo is good for something.
“Your brother and I are kind of on the outs. I asked him to give me some space, so I thought it would be rude to violate my own request if you could help me instead.” I do my best to keep my voice steady, though I’m unsure of my success. “And I mean, you owe me one, right?”
He stares at me for several seconds, not even blinking. It’s impossible to tell whether he wants to ask more questions about Leo. Based on our previous conversations—about another ghost connected to him, oddly enough—he either has no interest in his brother’s life or does a damn good impression of a guy who feels that way.
“I’ve seen him, too. My dad.” He runs a hand through his hair, and it’s as if he ages twenty years the moment the admission leaves his lips. The lines around his eyes deepen. His skin goes gray. The sadness weeps off of him like sweat down the side of a glass of sweet tea in July. “I don’t know what he wants, Graciela, but surely you can guess at least as well as the next guy.�
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“You don’t have any ideas?”
The thunderclouds that have been lurking on the edges of his face sweep in to dominate his expression. They darken his eyes, as well, and a chill creeps over my skin. Whatever he’s thinking isn’t going to be easy to hear, if and when he decides to share it.
“I’m sure you’re aware by now of how he died. And that there are people who don’t believe it was an accident, no matter what the cops said when they closed their bogus investigation.”
My brain works overtime while my muscles move slower than normal in an attempt to both conceal my reaction and buy myself a bit more time before answering. I want to believe Mr. McElroy, who said Trent and the rest of his family don’t really believe Leo had any sort of hand in his father’s death. I want to believe this rift was caused by grief and nothing more.
But if they really think Leo could have done this…what kind of family were they, ever?
“I read that they weren’t sure it was an accident, but after interviewing everyone who had access to the house, they decided it was.” I choose my words carefully and pray that none of the defensiveness flooding my bloodstream bleeds into my voice. My eyes wander to Knox’s face, seeking his gaze. For some reason, his encouraging nod makes me feel better. “Do you have some reason to think otherwise? Because getting justice for his death would be a good reason for your dad to come back around.”
My eyes meet Trent’s, then, and I get none of the same warm reassurance that flowed from Knox a moment ago. They’re mostly angry. Maybe a tinge of regret, of grief, but it all swirls together in a cloud of rage.
“I know you’re friends with my brother, Graciela. I hope that fact isn’t going to cloud your ability to help my dad, if he truly is coming to you for something.”
He’s avoiding a straight-up accusation, but the coy presentation does nothing to dull my indignation to the idea that he might believe Leo hurt their father.
“You’re saying you think your brother had something to do with Harlan’s death,” I supply, no longer willing to dance around it.
“I’m saying that I think Leo knows what happened. He was there.”
